


Unholy Matrimony

by heliocentrics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Corporations AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliocentrics/pseuds/heliocentrics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> I fucked Jaime the morning of my wedding. </i> </p><p>On the record, Sansa is fervently in love with her fiancé, soon to be her husband, happily in the care of the same Lannisters who killed her family and bankrupted their company. But off the record, she is scared, ashamed, trapped in a marriage to a man she hardly knows, kept hostage by the people she hates most in this world, being used as propaganda, a pawn in the claws of lions, without a single independent action to her name. And it's not helping that she has taken to "fraternizing" with the enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is! Finally beginning to publish just one of my many babies into the world. Not quite finished with this work yet, not sure where it will go, but I'm excited to see! This first chapter is going to be just a taste of what I've got prepared over the next few weeks- a little shorter than the rest, more of a prologue, and I plan to have the ball rolling by chapter two or three.
> 
> Just to clarify, this entire universe is a modern AU where each major house is a business or corporation fighting for power over the economy and the politics of the country (assuming a weak, inactive government is in place and most of the politics is governed by business- a.k.a. Capitalism on Steroids). I'm not going to get too much into world building here, but I'm hoping to address a lot of discrepancies in later chapters. If you have any questions about the AU or anything in the fic, leave a comment and I'll be sure to answer it- chances are if you're confused while reading, someone else is too!
> 
> I promise beginning notes won't be so long for every chapter. Without further ado enjoy!

Sansa’s phone screen lights up, illuminating the room, a millisecond before the alarm blares.

She jumps awake, startled out of sleep, breathing hard. _Another nightmare._ Thankfully, she had been pulled from it at the last second. 

Jaime, a more restful sleeper, still snored next to her. His left arm was still draped around her bare midsection. Sansa peered over to admire his sleeping form, almost at peace. _Almost_. His brow always made the smallest crease when he slept. 

Sansa turned around, leaning on one elbow, and reached for her phone, to shut it off. The minute the alarm was silenced, she felt fatigue envelop her again. Her clock read 6:15 a.m.  _Pray I’ll never have to wake up this early for a very long time._ She collapsed back onto the pillow next to Jaime, turning towards him and wrapping her arms around his chest. She murmured a little sound of contentment, letting her eyes flutter shut again. 

This seemed to wake Jaime up. At first he opened one squinty eye, and then the next. The crease in his brow intensified, until his whole forehead wrinkled. He sat up slowly, unfolding himself from Sansa’s grasp as he peeled himself from the pillows. “Sansa… Sansa? What time is it?"

She sighs next to him, unwilling to get up. “Does it matter?” 

“Yes, it matters.” Jaime was very much awake now, spotting the time. “You have to get up, for your own sake.”  

Sansa was seconds away from throwing a fit, absolutely refusing to get up. “I don’t want to wake up today.” 

“I know.” Jaime was willing to be sympathetic. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, searching blindly for a pair of boxers on the hardwood floor before grabbing them, and pulling them on. He stood up, wavering for just a moment until he gained his footing and walked out to the kitchen. “This is for your own good, you know.” 

“Everything is for my own good these days.” Sansa mumbled into the pillows. There was always someone whispering in her ear, telling her what was the right decision and what wasn’t. Petyr Baelish and Cersei Lannister warred for her attention, each feeding her subtle commands and forcing her into scenarios she wasn’t even aware of. Marrying Harry had been Petyr’s idea, much to Cersei’s dismay. Not even six months after Petyr had brought up the idea of a “public relationship” to her over dinner, Harry had proposed. And Sansa had no other choice than yes. Harry wasn’t so bad, though. At the very least, he was better looking than Tyrion. And hopefully he would suffer a much more fortunate fate than her last husband.

The smell of fresh coffee pulled Sansa out of her thoughts. She sat up in bed, against the headboard, pulling the sheets up with her. Jaime came in seconds later, setting down two full mugs on the nightstand. He pulled open a drawer in the dresser next to him and tossed Sansa a clean grey shirt. “Here.”  

Sansa thanked him with a glance and pulled Jaime’s shirt over her head. They were always far too big for her, but Sansa felt safe and cozy in Jaime’s shirts, and kept them for herself long after she had need of them. Once she had pulled her arms through the oversize sleeves, Jaime placed a mug of coffee in her hand, took his own mug, and settled back into bed next to her. Sansa laid her head on his shoulder, and neither of them spoke for a long while, sipping their coffee in comfortable, intimate silence as dawn broke through the open window. Sansa didn’t know how many of these mornings she had left, and she treasured every second like she would never be alone with Jaime again. Depending on her future husband’s temperament, that could be likely. She breathed deep, savoring the smell of coffee that seemed to permeate every corner of Jaime’s apartment. She savored the morning dew fogging up his bedroom window, until shapes became undefinable and the sunrise faded into nothing but a gradient, harsh oranges and soft pinks interrupting the static dark blue that dominated the skyline. She savored Jaime’s deep, calm breaths, the rise and fall of his chest, like big sighs, over and over again. She savored the bitter taste of coffee in her mouth, always the same brand, the same flavor. Jaime had a very specific taste, and could never drink anything besides the stuff he had imported from across the sea. Sansa had hated it, at first; the coffee was too hot, too strong, and she never took coffee black, the way Jaime always served it to her. But the more she had, the more she came to tolerate it, and now she could only associate it with Jaime, and these early mornings they shared before she returned to her real life. 

“I can’t believe Petyr’s throwing you into this without a rehearsal.”

_My wedding with Tyrion_ was _the rehearsal._ Sansa bit her tongue on that one. Jaime hated when she brought up his brother, and frankly, she hated it too. Their marriage had been short and uneventful. Tyrion knew too well the horrors Sansa had faced since becoming an asset to his family, and although he reached out to her multiple times, Sansa knew better than to get involved. 

“Mmm” was the only response Sansa felt like giving.

“Do you at least like the dress?” 

“Does it matter?” The dress wasn’t her pick, of course. “I don’t want to talk about the wedding right now. This is going to be the best part of my day. I don’t want to spoil that.” 

Jaime laughed underneath her. “You don’t know that.” 

“What on earth could happen today that could be better than this?”

“Oh, I don’t know. My sister could trip and fall walking down the aisle.” Although the wedding had been Petyr’s doing, Cersei had famously demanded that she be part of the wedding party, and after much tussle was finally included as a bridesmaid. And unlike Tyrion, Jaime had no problem talking about Cersei. 

“How could that be better than this if I wouldn’t even be able to see it?” Sansa let herself crack a smile, peering up at Jaime.

“Don’t worry, I’d be sure to recount the entire thing in copious detail to you later.” 

  
_Later_. When would that be? How long did Petyr want Sansa to stay with Harry, to pretend to love him? How long before Sansa could end the charade, and come back to this apartment, this bed, this life she had been keeping up for herself?

“I don’t want to get married today.” 

“I know.” Part of Sansa had expected Jaime to be just as bad as Petyr, telling her that this was the right thing and everything would be better once she was married again. Jaime’s response was both surprising and comforting to her, and she relished in it for as long as she could. “I’m sorry.” 

“’S not your fault.” Sansa murmured. Her mug was almost empty now, and she let one light finger trace around the rim of the cup absentmindedly. “No one’s fault but my own.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“It is. If I could ever stand up for myself and tell Petyr or Cersei no, then maybe I’d never have to marry anyone. I’d never have to do anything I didn’t want to.” 

“You know that’s not how it is. You’re tied to these people because of a deal that went sour years ago, a deal you didn’t even broker yourself.” 

“And whose fault is it that it went so sour?” 

“Certainly not yours.” 

“Hmmph.” Sansa had a strange talent in which she could kill a conversation in a single groan or grunt of displeasure, and it worked quite well on Jaime.

He held his hand out for the mug, and she passed it to him with reluctance. When he made to get up and take their dishes to the kitchen, she scooted closer to him and wrapped one arm around him, forcing him back into bed. “Just leave them here. Deal with them later. Please.” 

Jaime gave in, but not without protest. “Don’t you have to leave soon if you’re going to make it back in time?” 

Sansa chanced a quick look at the clock. 6:45 a.m. _I can squeeze in a few minutes if I’m fast._ “I don’t have to make it back in time.”

“Yes, you-“ 

And then they were kissing again.


	2. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bouquet, the shoes, the jewels, and, of course, the dress! Catch every juicy detail of Sansa Stark's extravagant look she wore to her wedding to her latest husband, Harry Hardying, followed with details of the wedding party. Details on page six of this copy of Seven States Telegraph!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I want to apologize for how long it took to get this chapter out... I really am sorry. I'm posting this in a fit of late-night guilt for lack of chapters. I have had most of this written for a few months now (besides the Jaime parts, that was a spur of the moment thing! If you like his POV let me know and I'll add more) but I just couldn't figure out how to space out each chapter. For a while I wanted the entire wedding to happen all in one chapter, but it was getting too lengthy, so I'm splitting the day up in two to three chapters, and then we'll really get rolling. Since most of the wedding is already written, and I'm mostly doing this for the sake of spacing it out and not having 4,000 word chapters, expect the next section before the week is up! As always, comments and feedback are always appreciated. Thanks for being so patient, and enjoy!

Jeyne flitted about the bridal suite, grabbing bouquets and pins to take to the bridesmaids’ room. Margaery knelt by the flower girls standing by the door, speaking to them softly and slowly as to how to walk, how to throw the petals in their basket. She was patient with them, Sansa noticed, as she watched her friend in the mirror; she smiled at each and every one, listening to them in their bright, wandering voices. _She’s a natural. When Tommen finally gives her children, she’ll be the best mother in all Seven States._

 

She allowed her mind to wander as makeup artists set her with powder, pinned her hair into perfection, set jewels around her neck and in her ears. Years ago, this would have excited her, delighted her. Sansa had imagined her dream wedding since she was little. Now it felt like nothing more than a chore.

Sansa let her face rest in her hand, hardly attempting to hide her boredom at the entire charade. When Cersei had first begun to plan the event, she had demanded cameras in every room for the television special. Thankfully, Littlefinger had intervened before she could take her idea out of proportion, citing budget issues that weren’t there. Now, she was thankful for his caution. She couldn’t imagine pretending to be excited now, especially for one of Cersei’s projects, and one so stupid as the special. Cersei had presented her idea with vigor, bringing it up in every instance she could. “Support for everyone involved will skyrocket. Once people see their fantasy wedding played on the television screen, they’ll eat it up. People will love you for it, Sansa.” Her smile had seemed genuine on the surface, but Sansa knew it was all for herself. As long as she was a bridesmaid, she would reap this benefit, too. Cersei hadn’t been the highlight of news since Robert’s death, and Sansa could tell she missed the spotlight. The special was the easiest way to point it on herself. _No doubt she has a cameraman in the bridesmaids’ suite right now, filming every detail._

She tried to shove every thought of Cersei out of her mind. It was hard enough thinking about the man she wanted to marry.

“Margaery?” Sansa held her hand out, waving her over.

She could hear her tell the girls to wait just one moment, she’d be right back, Miss Sansa needs her, before she lifted herself off the ground and strode over to stand next to her. “What is it, what’s the matter? Are you feeling okay? Nervous?” 

Sansa could tell Cersei wasn’t the only one enjoying her position in the wedding party. “Sansa Hardying.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“How does it sound? As a name?” 

“…It will be a wonderful name. People will hardly notice the-"

“I don’t care what the people think about it. I want to know what you think about it.” 

“Well…” Margaery hesitated, playing with a stray piece of Sansa’s hair absentmindedly. “I think it will suit you. In time.” 

Sansa glanced up at her friend. “In time?” 

“You’ve always been a Stark to me, Sansa. Even while you were married to Tyrion. I can’t even think of the change right now. It’s all too strange to me.” She swallowed. “God, I’ll have to change your name in my phone. I hadn’t even thought of that.” 

Sansa laughed for the first time since she had arrived at the hotel. She chuckled into her hand, trying to hide her emotions from anyone else in the room. Margaery began to laugh too, and soon enough they were the giggling little girls again, from so many years ago. 

Cersei, like usual, made sure to dissipate what little happiness the girls were feeling in an instant, simply by entering the room. Sansa spotted her in the mirror before Margaery did, and immediately sat up in her chair, bringing her hand away from her face, trying to become the blushing bride Cersei so wished her to be. Cersei hardly kept her eyes on Margaery long enough to serve her a fake smile, before her teeth grit and she pointed towards the door. “Leave.” 

Margaery either didn’t have the energy or the courage to protest, and left the room in a flurry, shutting the door behind her. It was just Sansa and Cersei now.

She, of course, looked radiant, her glowing blond hair flowing down her back. She was dressed in a dusty rose gown, the same color as the rest of the bridesmaid’s dresses. The color she wore had been deemed the official color of the wedding, and everything, from the invitations to the centerpieces, centered around this depressing shade of pale pink. Sansa had hated it from the start. Each bridesmaid gown was different, and Cersei was no exception: the top of the dress was beaded in shades of gold and rose, with thick, lace-adorned sleeves, and the skirt, wrapped in tulle, flowed down past her ankles. The dress suited Cersei, and Sansa almost felt intimidated. She could very well outdo the bride. 

“I trust your second wedding day has gone more smoothly than the first?” Cersei’s malice was tangible in her voice.

“Of course. Without your guidance I’m sure this whole thing would be a disaster.” 

Cersei’s mocking tone was gone in an instant. “There are going to be cameras in here in a minute. I figured you would appreciate the forewarning.” Then she’s gone again, before Sansa can react. She looks at her appearance in the mirror: hair half-curled, partially made-up, wearing nothing but a silk robe. _Cersei certainly picked a great moment for me to be on television._

Margaery replaced Cersei’s presence in an instant, back by Sansa’s side. “What’s up?” 

“Cameras. Here. Soon.” Suddenly, Sansa felt the gravity of the situation falling onto her shoulders. _I’m getting married. Now. Today._

Sansa felt Margaery’s presence disappear for a moment, and heard her yelling down the hall. “Jeyne? _Jeyne!_ Tell the stylists to get back here immediately!” Then she was back by her side again, rubbing her arm. “Are you okay? I can tell the cameras to stay out.” 

She was trying her hardest to compose herself. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Let me be.” Sansa tried to shoo her friend away, but it was no use. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“It’s just… getting married. You’d think I’d have an idea of what this all entails, but with Tyrion, things were different. We had a… _mutual understanding_. But it took a long time to get to that, and I’m surprised we ever did. What if things are different with Harry?” 

Margaery moved to kneel in front of Sansa’s chair, rubbing her hand. “Sansa, dear, marriage is never easy. Especially between two people who barely know one another. But if you both put the effort in, you can make good of this. I promise you that.” She pinched Sansa’s cheek with her free hand. “Maybe one day you’ll love one another.” 

He’s _not the one I want to love_ , Sansa thought. Still, Margaery’s words had made her feel better, to an extent, and drawn her out of her nervous state. She recognized the sensation of tears welling in her eyes almost immediately.

And, as if on cue, the suite door opened, and the presence of a television crew immediately dominated the room. Two men were each holding cameras, another held a microphone above them all, and the final member of the party held a clipboard and donned a headset. She directed silent to the crew- pointing here, signaling for a different camera angle. Sansa tried not too linger on them too much. She was too busy working out how to spin this inopportune moment. 

“It’s just- I’ve been thinking about this day for a long time.” Sansa began to blubber, honing in on her tears, controlling them. Margaery caught on immediately, and began to play her part- she was better than Sansa at this, after all. “I’m just ready to be married. To him.” She moved to clear the tears from her cheeks, when Margaery took her hand and did it herself.

“I know. I know how excited you are for this day.” Margaery smiled at her. “I’m ready for you to be married, too. I can’t wait for you to be happy with him.” She took both her hands then, and clasped them in hers. They shared a genuine smile, for just a moment. 

“Yeah” was all Sansa could give in response. 

“Cut!” The director yelled from the corner of the room. “Alright, that was a great intro. I have some pointers for the ladies in a second.” 

Sansa and Margaery both sighed in tandem, taking off the facade, even if only for a moment. The director scurried over, and immediately began to blabber on about what she wanted from them. At least Margaery pretended to listen; Sansa could hardly keep her eyes on the director. She stared at her own reflection in the mirror, and the reflection stared back. _What’s in store for me? Do you know?_

A handful of stylists, followed by Jeyne, entered, filling the room up even more. The director stepped out of frame. “Alright, cameras on, and…” 

* * *

“…Do you like it?” Margaery murmured from the dressing room’s corner she had managed to claim.

Sansa turned this way and that, examining her slender form in the mirror from all angles. “It’s fine.” 

“Hm.” Margaery put a finger on her lip. “I think you look stunning in it. Like a princess. Everyone’s going to eat it up.” 

“I suppose.” Sansa couldn’t help but feel less than perfect, despite what everyone was saying. The wedding gown was certainly extravagant- a gorgeous white bodice, with pristine silk fabric overlapping a classy beaded bust, balanced with a full skirt, adorned with layer after layer of weightless white tulle. Her hair was slightly curled and gathered to one side, with some of it pinned under a small tiara attached to a matching tulle veil. Margaery was right- she certainly exuded all the royalty that Cersei had designed for her to exude. But Sansa still didn’t feel like she was the bride Cersei wanted. And she knew she never would.

“I know these aren’t the best circumstances,” Margaery said, walking towards Sansa’s spot on the pedestal in the center of the room. “But realize this is all going to be over in due time. Make the most of it while you can. Savor the best parts.” She carefully took Sansa’s bouquet (an opulent thing the size of her arm, full of white and pink roses, with bunches of baby’s breath dripping down the length of it) from its perch on the wall, and carried with her to Sansa’s side. “Like how beautiful you’re going to look today.” 

Sansa took the bouquet from Margaery’s hands, and just like that, the picture was complete. She could already see her likeness covering the pages of newspapers and tabloids alike for weeks, conspiring on the origins of her dress, her relationship with Harry. _My life, drawn out in front of me_.

“What time is it?” 

Margaery glanced around the room, searching for a clock, before reaching for her clutch on a shelf a few feet away to fish out her phone and check. “4:15.” 

“Shit. Cersei’s going to be mad.” 

“I heard she likes the lateness. The more late you are, the more late she is. I guess she thinks it makes you look good.” 

“Everyone waiting for me. On me. I just feel bad.” 

“Don’t. It’s your day.” Margaery saw Sansa protest, and modified her statement. “That’s what you want everyone to think, of course.” 

Sansa sighed. “Well, if everything’s ready…” She smoothed down her skirts with her free hand. “Do you still have my phone in your purse?” 

Margaery presented Sansa’s phone to her in a heartbeat. “One last check before the ceremony?” 

Sansa pressed a button on the side of the phone, and the screen came to life. Atop a slew of well-wishes in the form of notifications was one single text from Jaime. She smiled to herself, but didn’t dare open it to read. She killed the screen and handed the phone back to Margaery.

“That’s the happiest you’ve looked today.” Margaery remarked, redepositing the phone and shoving her clutch underneath her right arm, offering her left to help Sansa down. “Get a ‘congrats’ text from someone special?” 

“Oh, stop it.” Sansa laughed as she took her friend’s hand to step down from the pedestal. As tall as she was, Cersei had insisted Sansa wear a monstrous set of heels underneath her gown, and they were not exactly being kind to her feet. 

Margaery left Sansa’s side long enough to peek her head out the door and signal to the swarm of people outside. “We’re ready.” 

Sansa met Margaery at the door, and could see a slew of people lining the hall, from the camera crew to wedding planners all the way down to the person driving her to the church. She plastered on a smile she was sure she wouldn’t be able to take off until tonight, and dove into the lion’s den. _So it begins_.

Sansa took Margaery’s arm and made her way down the hallway. The camera crew did not waste this opportunity, swarming her with their cameras as she walked. She dug her fingers into Margaery’s arm, looking for any sort of relief as she fought to keep her smile natural.

When they reached the door to the hotel lobby, Margaery stepped back and, with the help of a few stylists, pulled Sansa’s veil over her face. “There.” She said, trying to hide her grin. “Now you’re ready.” 

Sansa matched her friend’s grin, squeezing her arm one more time. “Thank you. For everything.” 

“Come here.” Margaery opened her arms, and Sansa leaned down to embrace her friend, holding her there for a moment. At the last second, Margaery murmured the words “be strong” in Sansa’s ear, and then pulled back, all smiles, and glanced out the glass door. “I think my car’s here. I’ll be right ahead of you the whole time.” 

Sansa nodded. “Alright.”

“Love you. See you in a sec.” And then she was gone, and Sansa was on her own again.

For a moment, when both the lobby door and the main door were still open, Sansa could hear the roar of cameras and shouts outside, waiting for her grand entrance. She knew the live cameras, televising this spectacle across all seven states, were already rolling, pundits already speculating, and picking apart the guests which had already arrived. The thought terrified her, and she had to swallow her fear to keep her smile radiant for the cameras. 

The director from the bridal suite sidled up next to a cameraman already zooming in on her from a few feet away. “Tell us, Sansa, what does it feel like to be seconds away from making your grand entrance on one of the most extravagant weddings in recent memory?” 

Sansa turned to the director, all smiles. “Amazing. I just can’t wait to see Harry there, at the altar- it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I’m just so happy that this day is finally here.” Every word she said, from now until the curtain dropped, were Cersei’s words, spoon-fed to her. After months of planning, the production had finally begun. 

“Ma’am…” The chauffeur stepped up from behind the glass door to greet her. “Your car is here.” 

The director was already speaking quietly to the cameramen. “Steady, steady… this last shot is the fade out- number two, take this angle over here…” 

Sansa stepped out from the hallway and into the lobby of the most luxurious hotel in the greater capitol, L'Oiseau. She could already see cameras and crowds just outside the already-open doors, waiting for her. She tightened her grasp on her bouquet in both hands, and took one last look around the lobby. The opulent chandelier, hovering over a great mahogany table carrying a great vase of flowers upon flowers, reflected every beam of light in the hall, and staring at it was mesmerizing. She felt enchanted by it, but saddened by its proximity to her. 

All at once, the emptiness of the moment consumed her. She felt lost and alone, like she was walking through a dream. Her hands began to sweat under the grip of the bouquet, her fingers trembling. She knew exactly what was missing, and she did not dare dwell on his name, his face, on anything about him. It was taking all her strength to move forward, to put one foot in front of the other. She didn’t need any more distraction. 

Clearing her mind with the smallest shake of her head, she crossed the few feet to the hotel doors in a heartbeat, where a doorman led her outside.

 

The sound of the screams from everyone around her was deafening, and overwhelming. Sansa remembered her instructions from Cersei. _Keep your head down. Don’t acknowledge them_. Attendants and stylists surrounded her, already gathering sections of her veil and her dress to load into the car. Just a few feet away, kept back only by hotel security, were mobs of reporters and the public alike, all gleaning for just one glance at her. 

 

Sansa carefully took her seat in the back of the car, with the assistance of an army of stylists tucking and adjusting to make her dress fit without crumpling. She could see the chauffeur make away around the side of the car, keys clamped in his hand. Once her dress was set, the back door began to close. “Don’t budge!” One stylist yelled. “Good luck!” Another managed. And then the door was shut, the car turning on, the chauffeur slowly making his way into the procession to the church. 

* * *

Jaime adjusted his tie, unbuttoned his suit jacket. He leaned his head back against the seat, sighing as the car peeled away from the curb by his complex, merging into traffic heading towards the church. Cersei had somehow forgotten to inform him that a team of stylists would be coming to dress him for the day's event, and she certainly didn't enjoy the proceeding phone call. 

"We're Lannisters. We have to present an image to the public, you know. The whole thing will be-"

"Televised, yes, I know. You've told me a thousand times." Jaime muttered into the phone he held to his ear as a stylist adjusted his necktie in front of his own mirror. "I doubt anyone will care what color suit I wore, what brand of shoes I chose, how shiny my lapel pin was."

"You would be surprised." There was no hint of humor or lightheartedness in her tone.

"Just... let me know ahead of time in the future. Nearly pissed myself when the team knocked on the door."

"You're calling at a bad time, anyway. You're lucky all you have to deal with is a suit; I'm trying to keep track of the party, the camera crew, Sansa's dress, my own bloody dress, the-"

"Goodbye, sister."

Yes, the conversation had been far from pleasant. And Jaime wasn't looking forward to seeing her at the ceremony, or sitting with her at the reception. The closer the wedding drew, the more frantic and frazzled she became around him. She was always in a sour mood, even more so than usual. She acted as if she was planning her own wedding, while Sansa, the bride, hardly ever seemed to show an ounce of emotion towards the entire ordeal. If anything, she became sadder as the date loomed closer.

Yet Jaime found himself more attracted her, watching the rise and fall of her chest after a night up late together, laughing or talking or kissing or something else. He would sit in bed and listen to her for hours, talking about the wedding or her family or Margaery or Harry or even his own family. She would talk about her parents or her dead brother with tears in her eyes, curled up in his arms as he traced patterns on her back, rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand, interlaced his fingers with hers. She filled up the space between them, and Jaime was content to just sit and watch. He wondered how many of those moments they had left after today. 

A buzz in his pocket left Jaime reaching for his phone, to reveal a text from Cersei. He swiped it away, and instead opened his conversation with Sansa.

_Can't wait to see you today. If Cersei trips you'll be first to know. XO_

His thumb hovered over the "SEND" button as seconds ticked by, before pressing down. It too casual for the situation he was addressing, but there was no way he could bring himself to say anything else. He shut the phone off and turned his attention back to the scene outside. 

As the car got closer to the church, the streets became swamped with crowds of people, ogling at the town cars driving past in what felt like a procession. After two security clearances and a checkpoint, Jaime's car pulled up to a curb lined with dark velvet carpet, and the driver got out to open his door for him. The sound of the crowd enveloped him, but died away as he walked towards the church entrance. A gaggle of King's Landing socialites were gathered around the entrance, talking amongst one another, comparing outfits, posing for photos for the horde of media stationed by the steps. 

The closer he got to the door, the more people tried to approach him, but he brushed it all off with a clean, quick smile and a wave of the hand. He couldn't bring himself to pretend to be friendly with all these forgettable people. All he could focus on was finding his seat and keeping a tolerant look about him while the procession started.

Unfortunately, the pews had been sorted according to family, and Kevan and Lancel were the only semblance of company he had. Seated between the central aisle and an extremely un-talkative Kevan, he tried passing the time by watching people in the rafters, glancing at guests as they made their way in. Eventually, soft organ music began filtering through the chapel, and people began making their way to their seats. Harry appeared at the front of the church, taking his place at the right side of the altar as the pastor set up. Jaime wondered what he was thinking, if he felt the same way Sansa did about the whole ordeal. He really looked bored more than anything else, but Jaime was sure everyone felt the same way, at least until the ceremony began. He felt a sudden pang of envy towards Harry. _How lucky you are, and you don't even realize it. It would be so easy for you to throw her away. And you have no idea who she is._

The organ crescendoed, pulling Jaime out of his thoughts and into the present. The chatter quieted, the guests turned in their seats, and the grand doors opened as the first members of the wedding party began to enter the chapel. The wedding had begun.


	3. Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WATCH LIVE** : CEO of Hardying Industries, Harry Hardying, marries daughter of disgraced businessman and former wife of Tyrion Lannister, Sansa Stark in an extravagant and unprecedented wedding in Baelor's Cathedral, filled to the brim with the high society of King's Landing. Coverage on the Stark/Hardying wedding reception to follow; like _King's Landing Herald_ on Facebook to stay up to date on Capital news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, really, reeeeeeally sorry about the lack of updates on this!!! I promise the wedding day's just about coming to a close, I've got to write the reception (which will be the next chapter- can you tell I'm struggling with the pacing of this?) and then we can start moving on. Thanks so much with your patience with this and for not abandoning me for all my bad habits. (PS some Jaime POV will be happening next chapter!! Couldn't find a good place to put it in on this section but don't worry! He's not gone forever) If you enjoy this chapter, please leave a comment and let me know. Thanks again and enjoy!!

She felt as if she were in a parade, with mobs and mobs of people lining the streets, peering and waving. For a moment, all she could see was the crowd- no faces, no people, just the mob. Part of her felt inclined to wave, but she knew the windows were tinted, and that no one would see her. She sighed.

“There won’t be much traffic, will there?” Sansa asked the driver in the lightest tone she could manage. The driver didn’t respond.

Resting her chin on her hand, she opted to peer out the window, studying each face she could, before the car kept driving and she lost their person. She wondered about each of them- the homes they would go to once all of this was done, what brought them here, why they felt compelled to wave at someone they didn’t know. It boggled Sansa’s mind, but at the same time she understood them all. For a moment she wished for one of their lives- able to go wherever she wanted, do whatever she fancied, wave at whomever she pleased. The moment passed, but the sentiment carried, and even as she paused to look down at her enormous gown, her opulent bouquet, the rock resting on her ring finger, she felt trapped in a life someone else had modeled for her. She felt alone, not for the first time that day.

Up ahead, if she craned her neck past the front seat, she could spot Baelor's Cathedral. The bell, situated in the high steeple, swept left to right, its tone ringing out across the streets. Suddenly, Sansa felt nervous, and chills ran up and down her spine. Little goosebumps erupted out across her arms. Her fingers tightened and loosened in the bouquet. _I can do this. I can do this._

Somehow she found herself closing her eyes, bowing her head. _Get it together. Just a few hours today and everything will be over_. 

“Ma’am?” The driver called from up front.

Sansa lifted her head. “Yes?” 

“Are you ready? We’ll be at the church in just a moment.” 

She had to clear her throat before responding. “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.” 

The road was lined with crushed velvet carpet dyed a royal shade of crimson and lined with gold ribbon. The security detail lined an ornate gold-and-black gate, which was draped with black curtains marked with her initials and Harry’s intertwined. When the car pulled up to the entrance, Margaery was waiting for her, flanked by a team of stylists, who were under cover of any cameras by staying underneath the awnings. The car halted just in front of the doors, and a few men in suits flocked to the car to open the door for her. One of them met her at the door, extending a hand, gloved in white. “Good afternoon, miss.” 

“Good afternoon,” She breathed, making fleeting eye contact before taking his hand and stepping out of the car. When she stood, the sounds around her increased tenfold- cameras shuttered, crowds screamed, bells chimed. She could already hear the organ bellowing inside. She smiled, and part of her couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not. A little girl would have loved this, once. So long ago.

Margaery approached her once she had taken her first few steps towards the church. She kissed her on her cheek before coming around to adjust her gown. “Is everything alright?” She managed under her breath 

“Yes. I’m fine.” Sansa spoke quietly.

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m very sure.” 

“Alright.” Once she was finished, she stood back up to her usual height, and gathered Sansa’s veil in her hands to drape it over her face. “Most of the wedding party has already taken their places. After Cersei, I’m next, in just a second. Then you.”  

“Okay.” Sansa smiled. “Thank you."

"Go get 'em.” Margaery turned back to the church doors, where Tommen, acting as Harry’s best man, was waiting to escort her into the ceremony. When Sansa looked behind her, she saw a minder shooing her towards the church from behind the car. “Go!” 

One final deep breath, and she took her first few steps forward, bouquet grasped in both hands. She heard the crowds around her shouting their best wishes, declarations of their love for her. Her heels _click-clack_ ed on the polished gray stone beneath the carpet. Margaery took one last look behind her as she strode into the chapel on Tommen's arm, but Sansa was already gone to her, her eyes on her dress, her bouquet, her shoes, anything but the scene inside. 

An attendant signaled for Sansa to wait in an alcove by the door, so that Margaery and Tommen could walk the aisle without being rushed. For a moment, she painted the scene waiting for her inside her mind- which famous capital socialites would be sitting where, the looks on their faces when she entered the room, people craning over the balcony to get a look at her before she took her place at the altar. She thought, for the first time all day, about Harry. Was he nervous, too? How long has he been standing by the pulpit, waiting for her? Was he imagining the way she looked, fantasizing every detail of her? Or was he just as apathetic as she was?

Was she apathetic?

From inside, Sansa could hear the organ change tunes, switching from a meandering tune to a proud, eager anthem. The wedding march was reaching its end. She could hear the guests shuffling to stand for her.

“Ms. Stark,” The attendant next to her placed a hand on her veiled shoulder. “It’s time. Go on inside.”

Ms. Stark. When would she hear that name next? Was this the last time? 

The doors opened. The organ climaxed, reaching its loudest, most fervent point. She could already see people craning their necks, already trying to get a look at her. Petyr emerged from his position just inside the church, wearing a black suit, and extended his elbow to her. “Good afternoon.” 

Sansa offered a small smile in return. 

“You look beautiful.” Petyr lifted his elbow ever so slightly, signaling for her to take it. She did as she was told, removing one hand from her bouquet to rest on the crook of his arm. “Are you ready?” He asked her.

“Yes." 

“Steady, now.” And then they were around the corner, and the scene laid itself in front of her.

The church was even more beautiful than the first day she saw it, with an early sunset dappling the atrium in a million different colors from the stained glass on the far wall. Every seat in the room was full, every person standing, every face turned towards her. Aisle upon aisle of polished mahogany pews made the room seem even bigger than the first day she stepped in. Colorful socialite dresses overlapped the dark fabric of suit jackets. And, at the end of it all, was Harry.  

At the end of the aisle, he seemed even taller than usual. His dull blond hair had been combed and slicked back and to the side, away from his face. He wore a heather grey suit, with a clean, pressed white shirt underneath a navy blue tie. A single pink rose, surrounded by baby’s breath, lay on his lapel. His hands were clasped together in front of him, and his blue eyes bore into her the moment they made eye contact. He smiled at her, and she found herself smiling back, through her veil. She squeezed Petyr’s arm. Harry bowed his head then, but she could still see him trying to hide his grin. That made her want to smile even more, but she resisted. Then Petyr took one step forward, and their procession began. 

One small step after another, she began to inch down the aisle, in tandem with Petyr. She tried her best to keep her head bowed beneath her veil, eyes straight ahead. Every so often she would spot the faces of someone she recognized, peeking past the crowd from their positions on the ends of the aisles. Olenna Tyrell caught her eye from underneath a ridiculously extravagant hat, and offered her a smile and a wink. Lollys Stokeworth was staring at her, mouth agape and all, next to Bronn, her new husband.  

She was almost to the altar when she spotted him, at the end of his pew. He wore a navy blue suit, with a gold Lannister lion pinned on his lapel. He made eye contact with her almost instantly, and held it. A sudden sadness overtook her. _How did I end up here, walking down the aisle with the man I love in the pews? How did this happen?_ She squeezed Petyr’s arm again.  

Everything else fell away. For a moment, it was just him and her. The bells tolling, the organ crying. It felt right, to have him here on a day like this. It was what she wanted. She didn’t think she wanted him at the altar; she didn’t think she wanted him that way. But now, seeing him here, watching the way he looked at her, head to toe, the sad little smile he wore on his face as he met her eyes, she wasn’t so sure. Tears welled in her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying. _When will I see you again? When will I get what I want?_  

It took everything she had in her to keep going, to break eye contact, to place one foot in front of the other. To distract herself, she glanced over the wedding party sprinkled around the altar: Margaery, standing next to her position, waiting to take her flowers, Cersei behind her, presiding over it all with the regal air she always exuded, the rest of the bridesmaids following suit behind her. Tommen on the other side, looking bored next to Harry, a man he barely knew. 

_Harry_. He seemed more anticipatory than when she had seen him last. His smile seemed genuine. He looked down at his shoes to grin again, looking every bit the part of a tearful groom awaiting his beautiful bride.

Despite them moving at a glacial pace, the altar came up sooner than expected, and Petyr squeezed her arm once, before stopping in place. The organ slowed down, but each note pounded in her ears. Petyr faced her to tuck her veil behind her then fell away, taking his seat in one of the frontmost pews. Finally, she was alone, singular in the chapel. There were four small steps up to the altar, up to the priest, up to Harry. _The last independent steps I’ll ever take._

_One_ , _two_ , _three_ , _four_ , and then there she was, facing him. The organ slowed and quieted, then stopped altogether. The priest asked everyone to be seated, and there was a rustle of movement as the audience scrambled to sit. With the sudden quiet, Sansa could hear the mobs outside again. Margaery leaned forward, Sansa’s cue to hand off her bouquet. When she turned back around, Harry’s hands were outstretched, and as she touched her fingers to his, he clasped her whole hand in hers. The entire exchange felt strangely intimate, something a couple would do in private, and not in view of thousands of people, and millions watching at home. Still, she smiled at him, glancing shyly through her lashes before looking down at their hands.

The priest droned on for what felt like hours. She lost track of time, too focused on pretending to look intrigued, or too busy looking at Harry. Every once in a while she would allow herself to look out into the audience. She wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone in particular, just graze over faces in the crowd. In her periphery she would see Jaime, looking at her, waiting for her to reciprocate eye contact. She wasn’t going to allow herself that just yet. 

When the priest cleared his throat, and the audience began to put away through their programs, she knew it was time. A small boy she couldn’t recognize, on Harry’s side of the wedding party, stepped forward when signaled. In his hand were two rings- one solid golden band, unmarked and finely polished, and a delicate diamond one, with a thin band and an intricate arrangement of jewels that resembled a bunch of flowers. The gold one was handed to her by the priest after a moment. 

First was Harry. He took her hand again, this time more forcefully, with her ring finger already between his thumb and forefinger.

“Repeat after me: With this ring-"

“With this ring,” The band hovered just above her perfectly manicured nail.

“I thee wed-“ 

“I thee wed.” He slid the ring on without effort, squeezing Sansa’s hand in a way that made her smile without thinking.

“I consecrate this union-“ 

“I consecrate this union,"

“And declare you my wife.” 

Harry stopped fussing with the ring then, making eye contact as he said his last vows. “And declare you my wife."

A few in the audience eked out quiet coos, and Sansa felt a bright flush race up her cheeks. For the first time all day, she felt alive.

“And now, for the bride.” 

It was her turn now. Harry’s word’s had given her pause, but she brought her hand to his, lifting it up. She slid on Harry’s own ring, saying the words the priest fed her, keeping her eyes on his for the whole thing. The bright red on her cheeks never faded, and her heartbeat never slowed. 

After it was all said and done, and the ring bearer had stepped back into his place in line, the priest closed his book, and declared them man and wife.

“You may now kiss your bride.” 

With their hands still clasped in one another, Harry brought himself forward to her. Sansa closed her eyes, and when she felt him on her lips, she kissed back. It was not the first time they had kissed, but Sansa felt as if it was. She felt like it was the first time she had kissed anyone. It was pleasant, but fleeting, and Sansa could hardly make anything of it before it was over.

He pulled away, the organ started back up, and the audience began to applaud, standing up in their pews. Harry turned to the crowd, his right hand keeping its tight hold on her left, and Sansa did the same. She smiled, and the smile grew into a happy grin as she glanced over to her husband.

_My husband_. The thought stopped all signs of happiness in her tracks, and she fought to keep her smile plastered on. _Am I really married again?_

As she turned her eyes back onto the crowd, he was the first person she saw. She made eye contact with him without intending to, almost as an accident, but once she saw him she couldn’t look away. His eyes were already trained on her. He stood and clapped like the rest, but she could still see that hint of melancholy, hidden back behind his pupils. Seeing Jaime had shattered Sansa’s short fantasy, had made her remember that she was marrying a man she hardly knew, a man that hardly knew her, in this wedding created by people who were using her to serve themselves. And underneath it all was this man, who had seen past her name and her history and opened his heart to her all the same. It broke her inside, and made her want to cry. 

Still, when Margaery nudged her arm, giving her back her bouquet, she looked away, her smile growing again. Margaery smiled at her. “Congratulations.” 

Then Harry began to walk down the steps, away from the altar and down the central aisle. Their hands were still entwined, and Sansa had no choice but to follow him in tow, and then walk beside him, once she had caught up. The applause continued as they made their way to the doors, and when she made eye contact, some in the pews smiled at her as they clapped, shouting their congratulations over the noise. 

Before they went through the grand doors and out into the crowd, Harry dropped his hand from Sansa's, and offered his elbow for her to hold instead. As she took it, she chanced a smile at him, and he leaned in to kiss her again.

The crowds, just as before, deafened them, going wild as they kissed, and Harry laughed underneath her lips at the insanity of it all before he turned to the mobs, waving and smiling. Harry had always been the natural when it came to public appearances together. As she looked back, the wedding party was beginning to file out of the church behind them, Margaery and Tommen leading the pack arm in arm. She turned back to the crowd to smile and attempt to wave while keeping her bouquet in one hand and Harry in the other. 

Another sleek black car, identical to the one that had taken Sansa to the church, was waiting at the end of the carpet, to take them to the reception venue. When they reached it, the driver opened the door for them, stepping back and bowing his head. Harry turned back around one more time to wave at the crowd, with broad strokes of his hand, as if he was trying to reach every person there. Looking up at him, Sansa was reminded of a prince, or even a king, addressing his subjects with warmth and true compassion. For a short moment, she felt proud to be married to someone who cared so much for these people, even if it was all just on the surface. 

He turned back to her, gestured to the interior of the car. “Let me help you in.” He took her hand again, his other hand resting on her back as she inched herself in slowly, piece by piece. Once she had tucked her whole gown in, and her flowers were resting next to her feet on the floor, Harry took the seat next to her, and shut the door. The car pulled away from the chapel, into the line of traffic, and, like an assembly line, another black car pulled forward to take the next members of the wedding party.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Thank God that’s over.” 

The sudden change in emotion jarred Sansa. “Oh?”

“That whole mess of a ceremony. Let’s hope the reception is a bit more painless, hm?” 

For just a few moments, in that church, and walking out to the car, Sansa had been able to forget that this was all something someone else had orchestrated for her, and that everything she lived and experienced in those few hours was artificial. It all shattered when Harry said those few words.

“I hope so.” She let out a small laugh, and Harry, apparently satisfied, turned back to the window to watch the crowds they passed.

_So nothing had changed._ She hadn’t realized it until now, but part of her had hoped that the gravity of their marriage would have an impact on Harry. During their engagement, she had really only had exposure to him during planned outings, at dinners or red carpet events, where they had to put on the façade. She had never really seen him during the wedding planning, and when she did, he was difficult to read, and Sansa had found minimal interest in him. Other than that, they really had no reason to see one another. Now that he was all she had, all that was in front of her, things were different.

Sansa resigned herself to looking out the window, but the faces blurred together again and she couldn’t focus. She was trying to keep the tears out of her eyes again, biting on her lip until it was white. She looked down at her bouquet on the floor of the car, down at her feet, perfect pink toes wedged into sparkling white heels. Why was everything falling together like this?

“I meant to tell you.” Harry’s voice broke Sansa from her thoughts. “I’m announcing my Senate race next week."

Sansa turned to him. “Senate? Like, for the Vale?” 

“Where else? Royce’s seat still hasn’t been filled since he retired.”

“I mean… doesn’t this all seem a little sudden? And… misplaced?” Harry had been running his father’s small corporation since his passing a few years ago; he had never held any sort of public office.

“This has been in the works for longer than you could know.” Harry turned back to the window, dismissing the conversation, and any qualms Sansa had with it. “I thought you should be aware. Help you put on a good show at the reception.”

“There’s not going to be cameras at the reception.” Sansa’s voice was meek.

“The people watching at home are not the donor pool I’m aiming for, Sansa.” Harry spoke to her like he was chastising a child. When he said her name, she felt small and worthless.

Still… _what was the point of running for_ _Senate?_ The government that ran the Seven States had been weak and powerless for years, with most of the country controlled by businesses and corporations. The executives that ran these corporations paid off men to fill the seats of Congress and vote for bills that made business stronger and the government weaker. In a way, Sansa could see why Harry could run for office: Petyr’s company was the largest in the Vale, and the Senate seat did need to be filled. It was only natural that Petyr would pick someone, especially someone he had taken under his wing for some time- but Sansa wouldn’t expect it to be someone as blatantly linked to him as Harry. It was a static job- there was no growth in government, especially compared to being CEO of a company, however small it was.

“You’ll get backlash for it.” Sansa dared. “A prominent businessman running for office, that’s unprecedented.” 

“I believe semi-prominent is the word that’ll be used. Besides, Petyr bought out my company before it was even in my hands. I only handle so much.” 

He had a point. But that didn’t stop her. “Petyr put you up to it, didn’t he?” 

“Oh, enough. I don’t want to talk about it, alright? I just wanted you to know. I even thought you'd like it; you'll be a senator's wife. But it’s happening with or without your help.” 

Sansa didn’t dare bring it up again, resigning herself to the window. How was she going to pretend to love this man who felt nothing towards her in front of thousands of guests, wining and dining potential campaign donors at her own wedding reception? 

They were out on open road now, away from the city center where the crowds of people had been. There were a few press trucks positioned on the side of the road, broadcasting the procession of black cars racing past them, reporting on the status of the wedding party as they traveled to the venue.

Sansa watched the trees passing by, thousands of shades of green blurring into one, a sea of jade presiding over the dull gray pavement below it. 

Her heart ached for home. Not this wedding, not this husband, not this dress, not even Jaime. She remembered the North, and she remembered Winterfell, the sprawling stone mansion that looked more like a castle than a house. She missed it all. She missed her parents, her brothers, even little Arya. _How did this happen?_

_How did it all end up like this?_


	4. Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CLICK to see images of the Stark-Hardying wedding reception, including toasts, first dances, and the gorgeous Lannister mansion where it all took place, just south of King's Landing proper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's been a really, really, really long time since I've updated, and I want to apologize. School happened, and I've been working on this monster of a chapter little by little over the past few months. I've been ironing out the exact path I want this to go, and have a general plotline in mind, but it's been pretty difficult filling in all the details. And this chapter was longer than I had originally expected. Please feel free to leave a comment if you liked it, or have any questions about plot/worldbuilding stuff (still figuring out some of the smaller AU details as I go). Without further ado, here's chapter 4!

Jaime reached into his suit pocket to check his phone for what must have been the millionth time that evening. The tables at the reception had been sorted according to family, and he had had the severe misfortune to be stuck between his uncle Kevan and his Aunt Genna’s husband Emmon Frey. They hadn’t been much for conversation, and when guests began to circulate the ballroom, floating from one table to another, Jaime had realized he wasn’t in much mood for socializing. He had already faked a run to the bathroom twice, to avoid incoming Freys or Tyrells. He was throughly and completely bored, and the bride and groom hadn’t even arrived yet. His phone yielded nothing: no messages or notifications from anyone in particular.

“Jaime! Such a pleasure to see you.”

He was startled out of his thoughts by an all-too familiar sound, and turned around to see his sister, standing behind him. Cersei smiled from ear to ear, her hands clasped together in modesty, but it all dripped of disgust and indifference she hid behind courtesies. Jaime forced himself to mirror her smile, and stood up from his chair at the table to greet her, taking her hands before embracing her. It was quick and painless, but Jaime still hated every second he had to pretend to like his sister.

While they were still close, faces just inches away, Jaime chanced a whisper in her ear. “I thought you were at the front table.” When he pulled away, he spoke to her through a false grin. “With the wedding party.”

Cersei sat down in Kevan’s unoccupied seat, and launched into some semblance of conversation with him. Her amiable gestures and expressions made anyone who saw them from afar think they discussed nothing special, but she spoke low enough and in just the right tone to disguise her words.

“Get me away from this bloody wedding party.”

“The wedding party you organized.”

Cersei laughed as she shot Jaime a glare from the corner of her eye. “I don’t want to look at another Tyrell for a month.”

“They can’t be much worse than you.” Jaime reached for two glasses and a bottle of wine at the table and poured himself and his sister a cup.

“It’s a wonder I don’t strangle you here and now.” Her voice was cool and unaffected.

He laughed into his glass as he drank. “I suppose you won’t be going into the business of wedding planning.”

“Oh, enough.” She took a generous sip before continuing. “I suppose I should be lucky I’m not surrounded by this exciting lot.” Her voice dripped of sarcasm. “It’s easier dealing with newlyweds.”

“Do you know when they’re arriving?”

Cersei held back a yawn. “Petyr said ’soon'. But it’s been soon for about an hour now. I think they’re still doing photo ops. Plus Sansa’s got to change her gown, fix her hair, the like.”

“Mm.” Jaime traced the rim of his glass, pretending to contemplate what she had said. Cersei’s mention of Sansa had stopped him in his tracks. Every time she mentioned her name, Jaime’s heart dropped to his stomach. She still didn’t know just how deep his relationship with Sansa was. If she ever discovered that her brother had abandoned their own clandestine relationship just to kick off another with Sansa Stark, there was no question that her wrath would be widespread, and neither Sansa nor himself would be safe. Cersei held too much power for that.

“She did look very beautiful this afternoon, didn’t she?” Cersei’s voice was stoic, with none of the pointedness or falseness from before. 

Jaime nodded. “Like a doll.”

“What an astute comparison.” Cersei enunciated every syllable, trying to drag on the sentence for longer than what was necessary. She took another sip of wine. “No… personality. Nothing to work with. Yet pretty as a peach, and she knows all her cues.” Another pause, another sip. “She hasn’t made this wedding easy, I’ll tell you that much.” 

His eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you would have done so much better.”

She immediately caught the edge of sarcasm in his voice. “Are you _defending_ her?” Her jaw dropped, her mouth agape. “I truly never thought I would see the day where you defended a Stark.” 

“She’s not a Stark anymore.” He mused, taking another sip of his own relatively full glass. 

“That’s no excuse.” 

“I’m not excusing anything. And I’m not defending anyone. Just-“

“Please.” Cersei cut him off with a laugh. They were bickering now. They always bickered. “You’re only saying that to save your own skin.” 

“I don’t have any skin to save. What has this family given me that I have to lose by-“ 

“Everything.” Cersei’s voice cut his own like steel, and when he looked over at her, her emerald eyes were glowing with hatred.

As if on cue, the lights dimmed, the music swelled, and guests began returning to their seats. Harry and Sansa were about to make their first appearance as man and wife. Cersei finished her glass and stood from the table without a goodbye, making her way back to the long table in the front of the hall reserved for the wedding party. 

Jaime pushed his chair forward, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hand. A long, tired sigh flowed out of him without effort. He studied the floral centerpiece of the table, focusing on the way the pale pink roses drooped against clean white lilies and green leaves, keeping his mind away from what was happening around him. A hand rested on his shoulder after a moment, and he looked up to meet eyes with Kevan. “Come on, stand up. The bride and groom are appearing.” 

Jaime took another long pause before getting to his feet. He easily towered above everyone else at the table, and resisted the urge to bow his head, avoiding eye contact with anyone near. He didn't want to look at Sansa and her new husband, didn't want to clap and smile for them as they made their entrance, didn't want to catch Cersei's awful smirk as she surveyed her work, or catch her wink when they caught each other's eyes. Suddenly he felt sick, but stayed rooted to where he was. Anyone leaving the ballroom would be viewed as rude and unusual, and would probably end in some sort of lecture from Cersei, or someone equally as abhorrent. He forced himself to look up, and bear witness to the scene.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Hardying!" 

The ballroom erupted into polite but deafening applause as the music reached its climax. The main doors opened, and there they were. Sansa was on Harry's arm, gripping the crook of his elbow with one hand, holding her bouquet in another. She beamed from ear to ear, but Jaime had learned her expressions, and knew them better than she did. He could tell she was faking it all, from her practiced steps to the formation of her lips, and how her smile never reached her eyes. She looked dazed, in another world, and his heart panged for her without warrant. 

If anything, she was beautiful, a vision in creamy white that complimented her complexion. Cersei had been right: she had changed into a sleeveless gown that hugged every curve. The thing was made of white lace and had little pieces of fabric made to look like budding flowers up and down the length of it. Her makeup was less harsh, and her long auburn curls flowed freely down her back, save for a few locked pinned up around her ears. She looked like a princess in her own right. Jaime felt a magnetic pull towards the beauty she exuded without effort; he couldn’t look away from her, could hardly notice the smirks and smiles from Harry Hardying, waving to the crowd. 

The bride and groom took their seats at the head of the long table situated on the stage of the ballroom, between Petyr and Tommen on Harry’s side and Margaery and Cersei on Sansa’s. The entire ballroom seemed to know the exact moment when it was appropriate to stop clapping and return to their seats. The music started back up, and serving carts began coming through the back doors of the ball room, heaped with soups and salads, signaling the beginning of dinner.  A line of people intending congratulations began to form by the main table; Jaime considered joining them, just to have a moment with Sansa, but he knew it would be too dangerous, and certainly no good for anyone involved. He couldn’t sit and suffer this dinner, and he couldn’t get up and leave, or pretend to socialize with anyone present. 

He existed in that limbo for most of the night, brooding in his seat at the Lannister table. He picked at each course that was served to him, drinking from his wine glass liberally (which always seemed to be refilled by one passerby or another). Guests would occasionally come to chit-chat, but left just as quickly as they had arrived, off-put by his dejected demeanor. Every so often he would look up at Sansa, shaking the hand of one guest or another, trying to look genuinely interested in whatever they had to say. Occasionally she would turn to Harry and talk to him, kiss him (usually to applause from the crowd below), refill his glass of wine. Jaime saw something artificial there, almost glossy, as if he was looking at a projection. It wasn’t all there. 

After dinner came dessert, and with dessert came champagne. The servers whisked away their wine and replaced it with champagne bottles and flutes, already filled. The room settled again to accommodate, with the music dying and guests returning to their seats. Petyr stood, clinking a clean silver fork against the clear glass of his own flute. Immediately he dove into a long-winded speech about the bride and groom, about knowing them for years, bringing them together, watching them grow up. Jaime hardly heard a word of it, tuning in and out. He paid more attention to Sansa: the curve of her jaw as she looked up at him, the slope of her upturned nose, the pale white color of her unblemished fair skin. Her eyes looked dead and unfocused as she stared up at Petyr, her smiles fading slowly and then returning as she caught herself.

First there was Petyr’s toast, then Cersei’s, then Tommen’s, then Margaery’s. Each of them seemed to be unending, and Jaime only tuned in when asked to drink from his glass. Finally, Harry stood, glass in hand, to face the audience. 

“I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight... it's such a privilege to share this joyous moment with you all. I wouldn't have it any other way, and I know Sansa wouldn't either. I feel so blessed and so lucky to be marrying such an amazing girl, a girl who had me head over heels from the day I met her. I haven't taken my eyes off her since, and I don't think I ever will. I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you, Sansa- I can't wait for us to support one another, for better or for worse, through thick and thin. I love you. Here's to the success of forever."

Jaime could bear it no more. He excused himself from the table with a nod and walked towards the first doors he saw as the ballroom erupted in applause behind him, the noise fading as he distanced himself from the room. He stormed down hallway after hallway, hands clenched in fists, passing bathrooms and kitchen doors and boozy guests returning to the valet. Finally, he encountered a set of glass doors leading to a sprawling yard behind of the estate.

The dusk’s cold bit at Jaime’s face as he opened the doors and entered the back porch’s steps, and he pulled his suit jacket tighter around himself. The sun was just beginning to set over the trees beyond the yard, and twinkling lights and warm post lamps lit an extensive garden, peppered with benches and birdbaths, and even a quaint little gazebo on the edge of the whole thing. He stood on brick steps covered by a second floor balcony, supported with clean white columns. The entire thing looked a little extravagant, but Jaime still felt a sense of calm in the chaos just by looking out at it, completely deserted and peaceful. He went to lean against a column, and then slid down to sit on the steps, looking out across the garden. Jaime had never smoked as a habit before, but in the moment he yearned for a cigarette. He realized he was shaking, and not from the cold. Part of him wished he had brought his wine glass. 

"Jaime?" Sansa's pealing voice rang out across the steps, slicing the silent calm in two. He turned to see her standing on the top step, her long fingers grazing the door as it closed behind her. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was slightly messy, one single lock falling against her face. 

The image of her made him smile, but Jaime turned back around and slumped against the column again, hugging his blazer tighter around his torso. "Why aren't you inside enjoying your wedding?" 

"I saw you leave." Sansa's heels clicked against the brick as she descended the steps to sit beside him. "Didn't want to miss any of the fun."

His laugh was humorless, more of a scoff. "Nothing fun out here."

"Well, two's a party." He heard the smile in her voice before he turned to see it. 

Jaime returned the smile, relaxing, and when he turned back to look across the yard, Sansa rested her hand on top of his.

"Gods, you're ice cold, Sansa." Jaime peeled off his jacket in one fluid motion. "Take it. Please."

"I'm hardly chilly. I'm a child of the North, remember?" Sansa laughed, but he could hear her voice shake underneath it all.

"I insist."

She wrapped herself in the smooth navy fabric, her hands hardly reaching the ends of the sleeves. Jaime could hear crickets and cicadas. singing in the forest beyond the garden.

“This old house is massive. The property, too.” Jaime’s attempt at small talk was pathetic, but Sansa latched on anyways. 

“It is.” Her tone was more than commentary; she sounded bemused as her eyes gazed out onto the patio. “I think it’s quite beautiful, though.” 

“Any idea which poor old bastard in there owns it?” Jaime joked.

“I think it might be under your name, actually.”

He shot her a look, eyes narrowed. “Don’t play with me, now.” 

Sansa’s gaze rolled over to meet his. “I’m being serious. It’s an old Lannister estate. Cersei told me as much when we toured the property together, months ago. If I remember correctly, it belonged to your uncle’s wife’s cousin, then your father, for a time. When he died, the ownership must have automatically passed to you.”

“Oh.”

“I take it Cersei never asked your permission to use it.” Sansa smirked.

“No, she didn’t.” Jaime’s lips curved upwards as he breathed out a laugh. “Well, at least I learned something tonight.”

“What’s that?” 

“If I ever get sick of the capital, I have a place to stay.”

“You wouldn’t go back to Casterly Rock?”

“Never in a million years.” Jaime let out a sigh, pursing his lips so it left his lips in one long stream. “My father already haunts me here.” 

Sansa let the silence grow between them, and after a moment she scooted closer to him, and laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers tightening around his.

"So how's Harry?” Jaime cut the quiet.

"What do you mean?" 

"He enjoying himself?"

Sansa paused. "I suppose."

"Uh oh."

"What?" 

Jaime laughed under his breath. "That's no good."

"What do you mean?"

"Just tell me. What's wrong with him?"

The pause was shorter this time. "Nothing."

"Sansa-"

"Please, Jaime, can you just drop it? I don't want to flesh out all the bad qualities of my husband on the night of our wedding."

"Fine. Fine." Jaime stared back out into the growing darkness. 

Sansa only allowed the silence to settle for a pause. "He's running for Royce's old seat. For Senate."

"Wow. That's bold." Jaime had no idea why anyone powerful would run for office. Everyone knew that the only way to hold any real power was owning something. 

"I think Petyr put him up to it. I think he's got a bigger plan than just Senate, too. But apparently that's all I'm allowed to know."

Jaime's heart ached for her. "Sansa, I'm so sorry."

"No, it's fine." He could tell she was trying to blink back tears. "It was stupid of me to think... after three engagements that one would work out alright." 

"You know you can't blame this on yourself." He leaned forward to wrap an arm around her, bringing her closer, letting her lean into his side. 

Almost immediately, Sansa pulled away. “What if someone sees us?” 

“No one will.” Jaime let her rest her head in the crook of his neck. “And if they do, Harry will never know. I’ll keep you safe from him.” 

“Don’t promise that.” Her voice was just a whisper. “I know you can’t keep it.” 

Jaime couldn’t argue with her; they both knew it was true. “I wish I could.” 

“If we were having our wishes granted-“ 

They both heard someone laughing inside at the same time. In tandem, their heads whipped around, instantly on alert, eyes trained on the door. Nothing came of it, and eventually the voices dissipated, and the silence returned. 

Sansa leaned away from Jaime, and made to stand. "This isn't safe.” She grabbed his right hand with her left, stood and turned. Before he could protest or pull his hand away, she led him up the stairs and back inside the mansion. The hallway in front of them was empty, save for a few event staff here and there, and the sound of music and chatter resonated from the ballroom, far away. Sansa led them both into the first door he saw, a nondescript white one with peeling paint and an ancient brass knob, and locked the door behind them. Inside, the room was cozy and mostly nondescript; a plush, pearly white sofa lined one wall of the room, a soft pink chaise on another, and a mahogany vanity with one round mirror on its desk. 

“What are you-“

“Shh.” She silenced him with a pointed glance. “You hear anyone?”

The air was still, the only sound distant crickets from outside and the din from the ballroom.

Jaime blinked. “No.” 

Sansa breathed. “If Harry caught me with you-“

“Don’t worry about that.” He circled around to face her directly. 

“I have to, Jaime. Either I shut you out for the rest of my life, or I worry about it. And I already know-“

Jaime leaned down in a heartbeat, cupping her face with one hand, and forcing his lips onto Sansa's. His other hand grabbed her neck, holding her as close as he could. Sansa responded soon enough; her gentle hands tangled into his hair, combing through gel and mousse to tangle his slicked-back locks between her long, slender fingers. She moaned and breathed underneath his mouth, and flinched at his touch before easing into it. 

Jaime backed her up against the wall, forcing her against the vanity. She gave into him easily and without resistance, granting him access to her mouth, her neck, her body. She shrugged off his jacket quickly, exposing long slender arms that snaked around his neck. He planted kisses along her neck, down to where her dress was clasped snug around her. Grabbing her by the bottom of her waist, he hoisted her up onto the counter, the mirror shaking precariously. Her shoes fell off as her legs dangled off the side of the vanity.

“No.” Sansa breathed under his lips.

He pulled back, confused. “What?” 

“The sofa.”

Jaime wasted no time picking her up by her hips, her legs around his sides and her wrists crossed behind his neck. They fell onto the cream white fabric gracelessly, but never stopped for a moment. Jaime hovered above her frame, breathing and kissing and leaving his mark all over her. His hands snaked under the thin lace, over tiny cloth blossoms, wrinkling the fabric as his fingers traveled up her thighs. Sansa gasped, her breath hitching as Jaime continued pressing into her neck with his lips, his kisses getting deeper and his hands getting closer. Sansa’s spine arched when he snatched away her underwear, and her head flew back, exposing her neck to Jaime’s mouth. Her breaths got shorter and and lighter, and she let out a little “oh” when his fingers finally reached her cunt. He wasted no time hitting the right spots, forcing Sansa’s back to arch higher and higher, her breathing getting faster. “Jaime. Jaime.” She had to force back a moan, a scream, and right before she came, he guided one quick finger inside her, and then another, and then-

In one moment of silence and stillness, they both heard two soft knocks on the door.

“ _Fuck_.” Sansa straightened immediately, her pale blue eyes turning to ice as they met with Jaime’s. They stared at each other in complete fear for a second or two, Sansa’s hand still on the back of his neck, Jaime’s right hand on her shoulder. Then, time began to run again, and Sansa sprang into action, pushing Jaime off and away from her and pulling up her underwear. She jumped up off the sofa, messing with the fabric of her dress to make it hit the floor again, pulling up the top of her bodice. All at once, she remembered Jaime. She whipped her head around to look at him, displaced on the other side of the room to avoid her path, making a sorry attempt at combing his hair back into place. “What are you doing?” She whispered, brows knotted together.

Jaime threw his hands up in the air. “What do you want me to do?” He stood up from the chaise he leaned against, looking for someone else to be, anywhere but here. 

Sansa picked his suit jacket up from where she had discarded it and threw it at him, before spotting a door in the corner of the tiny room, and pointing to it. A second knock at the front door finally warranted response from her, while she fixed her makeup in the tiny mirror and Jaime cracked the second door open. “Just a moment!” She was surprised at how unfazed her tone was. 

“It’s a closet.”Jaime whispered from the corner. Sansa turned around long enough to wave her fingers, the look on her face insistent that he hide away. Jaime did as he was bid. 

“It’s just me, Sansa.” Margaery’s voice floated through wood and peeling paint, a touch of concern masking her otherwise cheery tone. Sansa let out a quick breath of relief. _My day of reckoning isn’t here just yet._ Still, she checked behind her to see if Jaime was out of sight before pushing her shoes back on, standing straight and making her way towards the door.

She opened it just a crack at first, making sure it was just Margaery, and then quickly grabbed her arm to let her inside, shutting the door behind her. 

“Sansa!” Margaery was alarmed at her friend’s behavior. “Are you alright? You were gone-”

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Sansa stepped back to lean one hand on the corner of the vanity, the fingers of another resting on her brow. “I just didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

Margaery scaled back her apprehension, the crease in her brow softening. She reached out to take Sansa’s hand. “You can tell me what’s wrong.” 

Sansa looked at Margaery, really looked at her, for the first time that night. Her gown was the same as this morning, save for a layer of tulle removed from the skirt, and pieces of hair had started to fall away from a messy half-updo. Concern swam in her eyes, always so large and honest and open. Sansa sighed through her teeth, restlessly 

“I just got… so overwhelmed in there. The reception, the toasts…” Her voice rose up and up, getting higher as panic creeped into her tone. 

“I know. It’s a lot.” Margaery reached for both hands then, and then pulled Sansa into her arms, hugging her tightly. “I know it’s a lot.” 

“I just needed a moment alone.” Tears were welling up now, and Sansa relished in the moment, letting Margaery hold her as she pretended to be frightened. “I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and, and-“ 

“Shhh.” Margaery rubbed her back. “You don’t have to explain it.” She pulled away then, looking Sansa in the eyes as she rubbed her shoulders. “Better you just keep yourself together.” The cold wedding ring on her finger was running up and down Sansa’s skin, and it sent chills up her back. Her eyes were drawn to it: it was ostentatious, and the rock in the center glinted in the light as it moved. Nothing about it was warm or safe or kind, like the institution it was supposed to represent. _Is that what marriage is supposed to be? Warmth? Safety, and kindness?_ Sansa felt the presence of her own ring on her own finger, but she daren’t look at it, keeping her eye’s glued on her friend’s hand.

Margaery noticed Sansa’s gaze, and withdrew her arms, letting them rest at her sides, and then crossing them after a moment, hiding her fingers. 

“Cersei was asking for you. That’s why I came- I figured you’d rather get your summons from me rather than her.”  

“Have I really been gone so long?”

Margaery’s look was apologetic. “There was going to be the first dance right after the toasts.”

“Ah.” 

“Plus it’s your wedding. It looks… _strange_  if the woman of the hour is gone for more than a few minutes at a time.”  

“I suppose it does.” Sansa breathed out a humorless laugh. “Would it be too much to ask for just… a minute more? Just to get myself together, fix my makeup? I promise I’ll follow right after you. If Cersei gets mad, I’ll talk to her.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll say you were in the bathroom, or something.” Margaery made for the door before pulling back long enough to produce a pale pink lipstick tube from a fold in her dress. “Yours is smudged.” She explained. 

“Oh.” Sansa blushed, taking the lipstick from Margaery’s outstretched hand. “Thank you.” A nod from Margaery was the only response she got, and when the door shut behind her, Sansa was alone again, holding the tube in both hands.

“That was some acting.” A low voice mused from the corner. Sansa could see the door opening just a crack from the reflection in the mirror, out of the corner of her gaze.

Sansa kept her eyes on the lipstick, turning it over in her hands, her voice twice as low. “Maybe I wasn’t acting.” 

“Well, you were certainly lying.” Jaime opened the door of the closet all the way then, stepping out unceremoniously. “I know you didn’t come here because you were overwhelmed.” 

Sansa snuck a glance at him over her shoulder, her eyebrow raised. “I came here because _you_ were overwhelmed.”

Jaime smirked, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose.” 

They stood there for a moment, on clear opposites of the room; Jaime next to the closet door, Sansa by the vanity. The room was small, but in that moment the distance between them seemed to stretch on forever. She felt the loneliness hang in the air like an odor, and when she rose her eyes up to look at him, their gazes locked.

“You know I have to go back.” The regret was almost tangible in her eyes.

“I know.”

She set the lipstick down on the vanity. “You know you have to go back, too.” 

Jaime tore his eyes away, focusing on the wallpaper. “When am I going to see you again?”

Sansa crossed the room then, approaching him and taking both his hands in hers. She reached up to kiss him then, softly and firmly all at once. The passion and fire of just a few minutes ago was almost extinguished; this felt more like the quiet burn of a single flame. Their hands separated, and hers rested on his cheeks while his wandered to her hips. She felt everything else fall away, and it was just her and him, their souls dancing together in an endless darkness. Then his lips were gone and the dream shattered. 

“You have a wedding to get back to.” The words cut, but his tone was soft; he meant well. She wasn’t upset with him.

Their faces were still just inches away, and her hands still stayed on him. Her words weren’t even a whisper, just a breath. “I don’t know when I’ll get to see you again. I don’t know when I’ll come by, or you’ll come by, when we’ll have even five minutes together, five minutes alone. But I care about this.”

“I care about you.” Jaime swallowed. “Please don’t go back there.” 

Sansa’s voice broke. “I have to.” She looked up through her eyelashes at him. 

“I know.” He brought her head to his chest with a hand then, embracing her, while her arms tucked against his chest. “One day I’ll save you from this.”

Sansa knew that wasn’t true, but she didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to breathe life into it and make it so. She wanted to stay there for just a moment, just a moment longer, but she’d already been gone too long. She pushed herself away without looking at him, keeping her eyes downcast as she crossed the room, swiping the lipstick from the table as she left.

She paused at the door, her hand on the brass knob. “Wait a few minutes before you leave, please. Hide again if you have to.” Her voice wavered.

“I-“ 

The door slammed behind her, and emptiness stretched out for miles around Jaime in every direction, the ghost of her figure haunting the room.

* * *

 

The door slammed behind Harry with a long, painful creak. Sansa took a seat by the window, staring outside onto the gardens through warped, thick glass as Harry began to take off layer after layer. She could tell he was drunk just from the sound of him; the occasional grunting as he pulled at a tie or a cufflink, the way he would bump into tables or dressers around him. She noticed how everything creaked in this old house. The stairs creaked as they had ran up them, egged on by well-wishers on the first floor, who were still drinking and celebrating below. The floor creaked as she had tip-toed in his shadow, fearful of making any noise or movement to upset him. Even the armchair had creaked as she sat down. The creaking mixed with crackling as, she had noticed, a dying fire crepitated underneath the mantle in the fireplace. She soon realized why: as the embers died, a chill overtook the room. There wasn’t any heating on the second floor of the mansion. 

Suddenly, Sansa noticed that silence had fallen upon the room, and glanced over to see Harry staring at her. “Well?”

She cleared her throat. “Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to undress?” He was already down to his dress shirt and slacks.

Without another word, she stood and began to feel around herself for the zipper on her dress. She grasped and tugged at the strings without success, and after a moment Harry’s voice filled the room again: “Here. Let me help.” 

His fingers were less gentle and delicate than Jaime’s had been just hours ago, yet they were remarkably slower. She resisted the urge to squirm under his touch, and instead imagined it were Jaime undressing her now, pulling at the zipper with care. The fabric fell away easily, and she stood before him, naked, save for her thong, a flimsy lace bralette covering her midsection, and her shoes. 

Harry gave a glance up and down as he unbuttoned his dress shirt, revealing a clean white shirt underneath. He gave a chuckle as he looked, and turned away to pour a glass of champagne from gleaming silver stand a few feet away. 

“What are you laughing at?” She had meant to come off as abrasive, but instead her tone was timid, and small.

Harry paused before he answered, the champagne flute hovering just in front of lips. “Your undergarments.” He over-enunciated every word, in an almost mocking, ascetic tone. 

She blushed deeply, turning away, back to the window. In her reflection, she stared at her own body: slender, hairless, and free of blemishes, the way Cersei had wanted her before the wedding. She looked down at her heels covering her toes, and stepped out of them, the pads of her feet hitting soft plush carpet. 

When she turned back around, Harry was pouring a second glass of champagne, along with one for herself. His shirt was unbuttoned, but still tucked into his pants, and hanging on his shoulders and arms. His shoes were off too, revealing navy blue argyle socks that contrasted with his pants. The cotton made a soft sound as he padded around the room, sipping liberally from his glass. When he met eyes with her, Harry gestured to the champagne glass, and she took it, swallowing in small amounts as he did. She felt quite stupid, standing in the corner, naked, sipping champagne. She would have laughed, but she felt like that would just upset him.  

Harry downed the rest of his glass quickly, setting it down on the end table. He tore off his dress shirt, flinging it across the room for it to land on the dresser, draping across a modest vase of flowers. His pants unbuttoned with ease, and when Sansa heard the fabric pool at his ankles with a dark, empty sound, she felt compelled to look away. Still, she kept her eyes trained on him, studying every form and figure of his body, the way he had. He was just as fit as she had remembered from their engagement period, tall and stocky without overdoing it. Gelled pieces of his hair were starting to fall away, and his cheeks were flushed from drunkenness. When he tugged off his undershirt, tight, tan skin masked toned muscle.  

He saw her staring, and Sansa looked away again, focusing on the glass in her hand. She heard him collapse on the right side of the bed, letting a breath out as he sat. Clenching and unclenching her hand, her glass shook as she continued to sip. She felt nervousness like a deep pit in her stomach, the same way she felt when she knew she was in trouble with her parents. She used to hide in her room, blinking back tears, frantically thinking up some excuse to blame her sister while Arya tattled to her mother. Now, the memory almost made her smile. _How foolish I’d been, to think that my family was my worst enemy. To think that the worst thing that could happen was a quick chastise from my mother or father._  

Harry coughed, and the sound pulled her from reminiscence. Opening her eyes again, she stared down at the empty champagne flute, and then at her naked body, groomed by a woman she hated, standing in this room with this man she barely knew, in a house full of people she didn’t know or didn’t care for, in a city that had smothered her and taken her freedom for years. A certain sadness overtook her, that made her nostalgic for her childhood home, a home she could never return to, for a familial love she hadn’t felt in years. She set the glass down and turned to face Harry’s back, on the other side of the bed. 

“Well?” Her voice was smaller than she had planned. The words hung in the air for a moment before Harry made any indication that he had heard her. When he did, he eyed her from over his shoulder, then shifted his weight around to look her square in the face. 

“Well what?” 

“I think you know." 

“What, that we’re contractually obligated to fuck tonight?” He snorted to himself. “I bet someone’s on the other side of this wall” -he knocked on the wallpaper next to him then- “making sure the deed is done.” He laughed to himself some more.  

Sansa climbed onto the bed, positioning herself on the pillows, closer to Harry than what would have been normal. “We don’t have to fuck like it’s contractual, like we’re strangers.” She swallowed. “Not tonight.” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You sure we could manage it?"

“You could pretend like you love me.” She scooted closer to him, and rested a hand on the crook of his arm. “Like we’re happy.”

Harry moved toward her then, pulling his whole body towards her as he made to kiss her. Just before their lips touched, Harry stopped, hovering there. His breath smelled of champagne, and a darker, stronger liquor she could not place. “You have to make it convincing.”

“What?” It was just a breath.

“Convince me you’re my wife.” His voice was aggressive, and so was his touch. Sansa resisted the urge to tremble. 

Sansa’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “Convince me you’re my-“

Harry crushed his lips to hers then, so hard Sansa almost bit her lip. She tried to relax under his touch, place her hand on his neck, but before she could move he was on top of her, pushing her into the pillows as he kissed her. He paused only to reach behind her, ripping off her bra and throwing it across the room. She kissed where she could, peppering touches on his lips and cheeks and neck, but as soon as she made ground he would move this way and that, ravaging her own skin with a speed and ferocity that shocked Sansa. She felt a hardness already at his crotch, rubbing against her thigh as he kissed her. 

He shrugged off his own pants, and Sansa meekly followed suit, leaving herself exposed to him. She could only catch a glimpse of his cock before he forced her head back, planting kisses on her throat with an intensity she knew would leave marks come morning. His touch was unrelenting and forceful, grabbing where and what he pleased, and before long all Sansa could do was go along with the motions. She felt his hand on her breast, squeezing so hard at first Sansa thought she might cry out, yell for him to stop.

Suddenly, with a gasp, she felt him force himself inside her. She could not help but remember Jaime’s hands, just hours ago, as they had touched the place Harry did now. Harry thrusted in short, quick successions that jolted Sansa’s body. “ _Fuck_ ” was all he said, whispering it in between thrusts as his breaths got shorter and shorter. Before she could turn her head away, Harry lifted one of his hands from the pillows to grab her face. “Tell me you’re mine.” 

“I-“

“Are you mine?” His breath was short and hot, right in her face.

She grabbed his wrist with one hand. “I’m yours.” 

She felt the wetness on her thighs as he came, pulling out of her in one easy motion and releasing her jaw from his grasp. He collapsed on the pillows next to her, moaning. Sansa sighed, trying to catch her breath. She stared up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the molding with her eyes. 

Harry, sprawled out among the sheets next to her, gave one last long breath. “You belong to me.” His voice was low, and muffled, but it still sent chills down Sansa’s spine. “You are mine now.”

Sansa turned away then, peeling the quilt away and pulling it over her figure, holding the blanket up to her chin. A minute later she heard soft snores emanating from Harry’s figure a few feet away. Below, there was still the sound of music playing, glasses clinking, people talking and laughing. As the embers faded in the fireplace by the wall, and the room grew darker and darker, Sansa felt tears pricking at the back of her eyeballs. _How did it all end up like this? How did any of it end like this?_  

She thought of her mother and father, her sisters and brothers, dead or missing or worse. She thought of Jaime. She thought of Petyr and Cersei downstairs, the masters of her fate. And when her thoughts drifted to the stranger sleeping next to her, she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.

_How did I get here?_  


End file.
